Child of the Wand
by The Jolly Blue Pencil
Summary: What if Ollivander had brought Harry up instead of the Dursleys? How would his life be different? Completely AU.


**First story! Hope you enjoy.**

**October 31, Halloween. 1981.**

The night was alive.

Garrick Ollivander started and cursed as a flaming hedgehog flew past him, narrowly missing his crooked nose. Two young wizards chased after it, firewhisky in hand, shouting with raucous joy. "Upstarts," he muttered distastefully. He tromped up the steps to his shop, which also functioned as the flat in which he lived, and shoved a wildly making-out couple off the stoop into the crowded cobblestones of Diagon Alley. "In my day there was medicine for that," he shouted at them.

"Oh, stuff it, old man," shouted back half of the impossibly tangled couple. "It's time for a celebration! You-Know-Who is dead!"

"His version of a celebration is probably listening to Celestina Warbeck on repeat," the other half informed their partner, which was met with paroxysms of laughter and more kissing.

Ollivander humphed and entered his shop. "Nothing wrong with Celestina Warbeck," he muttered. He puttered around a little, stacking wands and trying valiantly to ignore the ruckus outside his door. Well, who cared if the Dark Lord was dead? Not Garrick Ollivander. He supposed it was good Voldemort and his young bucks couldn't off anyone else now. But Dark Lord or not, he had to sell wands, and it was harder than ever now that his assistant had run off with that half-Veela hussy...

"Children," he muttered, "nothing but trouble. And Galleons." Had the boy stayed, he'd have made him his apprentice. Would have taught him all his secrets. But now there was no one to carry on his tradition. No family, no apprentice...when he died, the art of wand-making would die with him.

He stroked a particularly fine hawthorn piece. Unicorn core, eight inches, springy. Just waiting to be discovered by some bright eyed, bushy tailed youngster. Who had no idea what immense time and years of preparation and even _love _had gone into the making of that single piece of wood.

"No appreciation for art these days," he grumbled. Outside, he heard a window smash. He hummed, dreadfully out of key, to drown it out. "_A cauldron full of hot strong love..._"

Crack. With an impressive noise, someone appeared in his shop. Ollivander stopped mid-lyric.

"Were you singing Celestina Warbeck?" the interloper asked curiously.

"I – what – _Dumbledore!_"

"I do miss her," Albus Dumbledore said wistfully. "A true artist. Do you know, I recently joined a chamber choir devoted to her music, we meet every waxing gibbous moon...you should come, Garrick. These young people have no appreciation for art." His eyes twinkled humorously.

"What are you doing here?"

"Could you indulge me in a cup of butterbeer?" the Headmaster of Hogwarts asked mildly. He sat down on one of the spindly waiting chairs, which Ollivander thought a bit presumptuous. "Of course, Albus," he said, remembering his manners, although he was irritated. Just as he had been getting a bit of quiet.

He waved his wand and there appeared out of thin air a delicate table and two cups of warm golden butterbeer. Dumbledore took his with one hand and a cheerful "To the end of the Dark Lord!"

It was only then that Ollivander noticed the misshapen bundle of blankets he held carefully in his free hand. Out of the top poked a wild mess of what looked like black fur, but closer inspection revealed it to be hair. A baby's hair, to be exact.

"Albus, why do you have a sleeping infant in my shop?"

"It's not mine, if that's what you're worried about," Dumbledore said with a straight face, although his eyes twinkled even more brightly. "That rumored romance with Bathilda Bagshot was entirely misreported. No, this...this, Garrick, is Harry Potter."

The name meant nothing at first. Ollivander had not paid close attention to the wild affair outside; the only reason he had noticed it was because it had blocked him from walking up his front steps. Then it dawned on him.

"Harry Potter," he said slowly. "The Boy Who Lived."

"The son of Lily and James Potter," Dumbledore affirmed softly.

"Lily Evans Potter, ten and a quarter inches, willow, swishy. James Potter, eleven inches, mahogany, pliable," said Ollivander automatically. "But why is he in my shop?"

"His parents gave their lives nobly tonight. His mother cast her own body before his so that Voldemort could not kill him." Dumbledore gently pulled back the blankets over the baby's face. Visible through the black hair was a livid lightning scar on his forehead. "But he left a mark all the same."

"Yes, fine, a very bad business," said Ollivander. He knew he sounded dismissive, and he wasn't really; he'd liked the Potters. They'd had a real interest in wands. But why was Dumbledore dragging him into this? "They had real skill in wandwork."

"Voldemort could not kill Harry Potter," continued Dumbledore, "And the magic rebounded onto himself. Somehow, it was Voldemort that was destroyed." He sighed. "Leaving poor Harry here an orphan."

"Very bad business indeed."

"That is why I am leaving him in your care."

"Truly terrible.." Ollivander shook his head automatically. Then his head snapped up. "_What?"_

"Harry needs a family, even a small one – one that can bring him up in the magical world. He needs to know what he faces. For Voldemort – " – and the twinkle was fire now – " – Voldemort will return, and Harry will need all the magical knowledge he can access. I have a strong suspicion this will relate to wandlore. And no one in all the world, Garrick, is more well-versed or steeped in wandlore than you.'

"I – what – thanks – beg pardon?" spluttered Ollivander. He was torn between indignation at this immense breach of privacy, incredulity at the thought of _him_ raising a child, a confusing sense of pride that he was thought worthy, and an almost overwhelming desire to set fire to the undergarments of the screaming ruffian who had apparently found good reason to roost right outside his door. It really was the straw on the camel's back.

He finally regained his composure. "Thank you for you kind consideration, but I really must decline. I don't know the first thing about raising a child, I have a business to attend to, and I quite look forward to a peaceful retirement. Good night."

He turned his back on Dumbledore, hoping he would get the hint to leave. But he was disappointed.

"I'll send Molly Weasley round to help you with caring for Harry; I'm sure you're quite able to manage the business as well; and there will be no peaceful retirement no matter what you do," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort will return, and he will come after you. I promise you that, Garrick."

"The answer's still no," Ollivander answered stubbornly.

"If you raise Harry," Dumbledore said convincingly, "think of all the new customers you'll get. Press coverage, curiosity. You will finally be able to educate people on the art of wand-making. And when Harry grows, you'll have an apprentice. Someone to carry on your legacy. A son, almost."

Garrick stayed turned around. "Don't try to coax me, Albus. The answer is still no."

Dumbledore chuckled softly. "I'll return for Harry in ten years. Raise him well, Garrick." There was a loud crack.

Ollivander spun round. Albus was gone, but where he had sat lay the lumpy bundle he'd been holding. Harry stretched clenched fists, starting to wail as the idiots outside started letting off fireworks.

"No," muttered Ollivander. "No, no, _no, _NO!"

**That's a wrap. Please review! Always appreciated.**


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